


Hold On to Your Memories, They're All You Have Left

by sunny_jordy



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alcohol, But mostly angst, Claustrophobia, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Signs of Depression, discussion of death in religion, mention of an abusive parent, mention of trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:27:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26304130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunny_jordy/pseuds/sunny_jordy
Summary: Losing the people you love is hard enough; moving on without them is even harder. But life never gives you the choice, especially not in the Magnus Institute.These are five stories about mourning, and one story about hope.
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Georgie Barker & Martin Blackwood, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Melanie King & Tim Stoker, Sasha James & Tim Stoker
Comments: 8
Kudos: 30
Collections: Rusty Quill Big Bang 2020





	1. Sasha

**Author's Note:**

> I am so excited to finally share my fic for the RQBB! 
> 
> Thank you so so much to my amazing beta readers, hila and maya! You should definitely check out [hila’s blog](https://hilahorizon.tumblr.com/), and also [maya’s wonderful art!](https://mayulart.tumblr.com/) This would not have happened without the two of them and I am so grateful and happy for their help. 
> 
> LOOK AT THE ART!!!!!!! I had the luck of working with [miska pestek](https://miskapestek.tumblr.com/), whose beautiful art is featured in the third and fourth chapters of this fic. Go to their blog and look at some more of their amazing art - I am absolutely flattered by and in love with their work, and I’m sure you’ll be too.
> 
> Last but not least, thank you to [the mods of pilesofnonesnese](https://pilesofnonsense.tumblr.com/) and all the folks at the event discord server! It’s been a journey I had the pleasure to go on with all of you. After you’re finished, go and check out the collection, if you haven’t already! There is so much amazing writing and art in there that I don’t know how to ever begin.
> 
> On a final note: please be sure to look at all the tags, since all the content and trigger warnings are in there. Besides the grief tw (which is for all chapters), I’ve written the warnings which are chapter specific in the notes at the beginning of relevant chapters, so you can check them out beforehand. Look out for yourselves and be safe. The first chapter includes discussion of death in religion.
> 
> I hope you have a good read.

Sasha isn’t a liar. When she talks with someone, she tells them exactly what she thinks; when she needs to give advice, she doesn’t try to make the truth any simpler than she thinks it should be; and when she makes a promise, she always follows it through.

Still, it isn’t easy to live like that, and she’s definitely allowed to feel nervous about something she promised. 

...Right? 

_Calm down, Sasha, it’s going to be just fine._ She decisively pulls her hair up and puts it in a practical bun, after debating for so long in front of the mirror what she should do with it. She doesn’t usually contemplate for so long what she should wear or look like - she knows well her own taste, and in fact her weardrobe is split into clear sections of work, formal, casual, outgoing… and so on and so forth.

But what she’s about to do can’t really be sorted into one of those neat categories, can it? _I mean, how do you even define ‘I promised one of my best friends I’ll do whatever I can to help him cope with the loss of his probably dead brother and now we’re doing something regarding that’ as an event?_

She sighs. _You’re overthinking it, Sasha. Tim would’ve never asked you to come with him today if he didn’t want you there as a friend. It’s going to be alright. Just do what you’re good at, and be a friend._ Sasha picks up the small backpack she prepared for today - two sandwiches and a large bottle of water, as Tim said it’d take them some time to get there and back again, wherever ‘there’ is. 

As she grabs the keys from the small rack near the door, Sasha looks over her cramped flat with mixed feelings of pride and sadness. She got herself a place that is all of her own a few months ago, but there is still a part of her that misses renting a room in a big loft with five other people, even though they often change faces and don’t stay for too long. It’s the lack of hustle that makes her run out of the flat and to the open streets late at night, when the silence is heavy on her and loneliness tugs at her heart. Sasha isn’t sure she’ll ever get used to this.

 _Move your ass, Tim is probably already there._ Sasha locks the door and does anything but run down the two storeys high staircase. She exits into the street, tightening her coat around herself as the November air hits cold against her skin. Sasha looks around and spots Tim a few meters down the street, leaning against his small and beaten up Ford. He got the car second-hand, she knows, three years ago, with Danny.

(Sometimes Sasha wonders if there is anyone else that knows about what really happened to Danny besides her and Tim, if he ever told anyone the story. She suspects not, as Tim mentions his name freely only around her. This is why she offered up her help, asked him if there’s anything she can do. She really hopes she can.)

“Tim!” Sasha calls out, waving at him as she comes closer. He looks up from his phone, and gives her a small, tight smile. 

“Hey, Sash, how you doing.” It’s not really a question, and he’s doing his usual bumping up and down on the balls of his feet, but instead of it just being some energy he has to let loose, now he’s clearly nervous. _At least it’s not just me._

“Hey.” She pulls him into a close hug, putting in every ounce of love she manages to pass through, and she feels his muscles relax under her arms and his shoulders falling down under her chin. Sasha closes her eyes and lets herself to also melt into the hug, Tim’s arms wrapping around her and holding her as close as she holds him. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs, his voice shy and uncertain, and this is how she knows she can let go.

“No problem.”

Tim shakes his head. “Not just for the hug. I mean, also for the hug, of course, just… for coming. I appreciate it.” 

She raises her chin up a little, straightening her back to look him in the eyes. “As I said, no problem.” Sasha smiles. “A James promise is a promise.”

Tim actually smiles this time, his eyes, just for a moment, twinkling like they would on any other day. “Believe me, I _know._ Definitely after how you followed through quite thoroughly on your ‘yogurt-revenge’,” he snorts. 

Sasha smacks him on his arm. “You started it! If you didn’t want your yogurt stolen, you never should’ve stolen mine,” her tone is almost too sweet, but she’s just teasing, and her smile is genuine. _At least he seems intent on being happy when he can, even if it’s on a gloomy occasion._

Tim opens the door of the car for her, and she slides in, buckling up while he’s talking to her from outside. “You stole mine for a week! And you kept sending it with Martin and his tea for Jon! I seriously still don’t understand how you convinced Martin that Jon had developed a sudden craving for yogurts, for god’s sake. He just kept throwing them away!”

When Tim enters the car, Sasha turns to him, raising an eyebrow. “If you really want to know,” she whispers over-secretively, “Martin was a total accomplice.”

Tim stops with his hand on his buckle in mid-air, clearly putting up a show. “I can’t believe it. A conspiracy!” He announces, finally fastening the belt, and ignites the engine. “How did you rope Martin into this?”

Sasha shrugs. “Wasn’t too hard. He thought it’d be funny.”

“Unbelievable,” Tim mutters, but his grin is wide, and he’s turning up the radio to have some background noise. “You’re a mastermind and I am the victim.”

“Don’t take the mastermind’s yogurt, then,” she laughs, leaning back into the soft old seat and letting herself relax in the familiar environment. “So, how was the movie yesterday? Martin didn’t get too spooked, did he?”

So Tim starts pouring up the whole story in a flow, telling her about how actually he was more scared then Martin, who seemed to be fine with all the horror parts (and cried just in the sad parts), while he himself felt terrified to the bone (but he still laughed at the jokes.) And then he tells her on and on about the two ladies that bickered behind them, and the cute puppy they saw outside the theater, and Sasha laughs and smiles and makes all the “ooh” necessary noises. 

The conversation goes on as they drive through London and out of it, the high modern buildings and flat parks slowly replaced by a more suburban view. The hills are of rolling vegetation green and soil brown, the road accompanied by rows and rows of golden orchid and vibrant iris. The houses change, too; they’re short and colored warmly, bringing into the somber November day a splash of light and life that sometimes felt lacking in London. Sasha also notices that the further away they are from London, the quieter and less cheerful Tim becomes, until they turn away from the main road and the conversation dies down.

They turn again, and again, and the road is no longer a proper highway and looks more like one made through the grounds over the years by cars alone. After a few minutes of turning like that between the hills, Tim finally pulls up and stops near a short hill beside them. “It’s here,” he says quietly, and pulls out the key, getting out of the vehicle.

 _I wonder why… here, of all places._ Sasha pulls her bag up and gets out of the car, closing the door behind her with maybe a little more force than she actually intended. She sees that meanwhile Tim had pulled a small bag of his own from the backseat of the car, and is looking up to the hill with a mixed expression Sasha can’t quite make out the meaning of.

“Up the hill?” She asks quietly.

Tim nods. “Up the hill.”

They start making the climb, the curve sharper and harsher on Sasha’s legs than she’d first thought it’d be. She scans her surroundings as they walk quietly. The hill is… well, it’s absolutely gorgeous, Sasha doesn’t have another way to describe it. The ground is spotted with an array of flowers, tulips and heathers and daisies, but for the specific winding path Tim and Sasha chose to tread. Sasha thinks it might be a coincidence for a moment or two, but then she spots it - a short wooden sign, a few meters up the hill.

“Property of Tim Stoker,” she reads out, her voice becoming more amazed with each word. “All of this is yours.”

“Yeah,” Tim answers quietly, not looking at her. He’s keeping his eyes forward, and his voice is detached and distant to her. _Oh, wow._

“Why?” Sasha asks softly.

Tim lets his head drop down to look at his shoes as they walk, sighing heavily. “When we were kids… Danny and I, I mean… we used to go every summer to a small summer house, just a few kilometers away from here. It was a dream, we had a lake not too far away and we just… hang out for two weeks. Every summer until I was fourteen, never missing one. But then the landlord sold it off and we couldn’t come back here anymore.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, pausing to think. “But Danny and I talked about it, you know? Getting it back, or at least building one somewhere close. Hanging out here like we used to, maybe bring our future kids here someday.” 

Tim quiets down again, but Sasha doesn't break the silence. She wants to listen, to be there for him, to let him get it out in his own time.

They're close now to the top of the hill, and there Sasha sees it: a high, large stone at the middle, surrounded by circles and circles of flowers in all shapes and colours. _Is this… is this a gravestone?_

Tim stops, standing still a few meters away from the stone, staring at it with wistful eyes. “When it happened, I… I wanted to do something. I don’t know. It’s not like he can appreciate it, but…” he closes his eyes, and lets out a shaky breath, his shoulders rising and falling heavily. “It just felt like this is the right place.”

Sasha looks at him, her eyes filled with warmness and compassion. Gently, she takes Tim’s hand in hers, and gives it a short squeeze. He opens his eyes, smiling faintly, his eyes red and holding back tears. 

“You know why we bury the dead in Jewish religion?” Tim asks, his voice breaking. 

Sasha shakes her head, but she doesn’t turn her look away from his eyes. “Tell me.”

“When we die, we have to be buried, because… ‘for dust you are and to dust you shall return’, of course, but also…,” his voice is barely audible, choking back on tears. “When the Messiah comes, the soul of each person who lived a just and good life will return to their body, and this is why we don’t burn it to ash. It needs to stay whole.” Tim shakes his head, the tears at last leaving his eyes and rolling down his cheeks. “But Danny doesn’t get that. He just doesn’t.” 

Sasha pulls him to her, wrapping her arms around him and hugging him tightly, letting him hold onto her and sob into her shoulder. She doesn’t move, doesn’t pull away or say a word. She just closes her eyes and listens to their hearts beating against each other, feels their chests rising and falling, until Tim’s ragged breaths slowly return to normal and he disentangles their bodies. 

He sniffles, wiping away the last of his tears, and then coughs to clear his throat. “It’s just… it doesn’t get easier, you know? I don’t stop missing him, or being angry that he’s gone like that, and it’s not even like I can talk to anybody about it, because who would believe me?”

“I believe you, Tim. You know that, right?” Sasha tilts her head aside, her heart pounding in her chest, and she hopes so much that she’s doing it right, that Tim knows what she means, because it seems like he carries so much heaviness in him and she doesn’t know how to make it go away.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” Tim gives her a smile, a genuine one. “Thank you, Sash, you… you didn’t have to come.”

“It’s alright.” She pushes her hands in the pockets of her coat, looking around. “Do you want to stay here a little?”

“I think I do.” He looks at the stone. “Actually. if it’s not asking too much, I thought you’d maybe light a candle with me?” Tim turns to her, his expression so open and more vulnerable than Sasha has ever seen before. “I always light one, and… it’d be good to have someone else here with me, for a change.”

“Come on,” she says softly, taking his hand in hers once again, and so they walk together in silence to the stone. It’s round and polished, dark gray stone with white block letters embedded into it:

**In Memoriam of Danny Stoker (1989 - 2013)**

**The Best Human to Ever Exist**

_It’s so Tim to write something like that,_ Sasha thinks, and she sniffles, feeling that her own eyes are stinging from tears. _God, his brother was twenty-four. I don’t think I got that until now…_

Tim kneels down and takes off his backpack, taking out a small round candle and a box of matches. Sasha joins him down on the grass as he lays the candle in front of the stone, and then, he offers her the box of matches.

“Are you sure?” Sasha asks, her fingers hovering hesitantly above the box, not taking it just yet. Tim nods, and she picks it up.

In a swift motion, she pulls out a match and lights it, and then lowers down her hand, until the wick of the candle catches on fire. Sasha puts the match off with a soft blow, watching as the tendrils of smoke rise up and evaporate into the air.

They don’t say a word, but they settle into a more comfortable position, leaning against one another and holding each other’s shoulders, watching the flame flicker and the clouds float in the sky for a long time.

 _I’m glad we’re here,_ Sasha thinks to herself, as she lets her eyes close for a moment and to breath for a long moment. _I’m glad Tim has me and I have him. I’m glad that… we’re friends, and that we can be here for one another, and that no matter what, we’ll stay by each other’s side._

___________

(They stay by each other’s side when there are problems with the statements, and when people start coming in to give them, and when Martin gets locked up in his flat and then when there are worms and panic and fear.

And then Tim’s life goes on.)


	2. Tim

In the first few weeks after Danny’s disappearance, the people around Tim still hoped. Maybe it was because they didn’t know what really happened. As far as his family and friends knew, Danny walked out of Tim’s flat one day and was never seen again. And even though Tim didn’t believe his brother would ever come back, even though he knew Danny’s fate must’ve been death or worse, there was something comforting in having the people around him promise fake reassurances and holding out hopes that one day his brother would come back. Somewhere deep down, Tim knows that a part of what drove him to the Magnus Institute was that fake hope, the desperate wish to find out that his brother can be saved from the hands of the circus.

This time there is no one to promise hope; and even if there was, Tim knows better than to trust it ever again.

After the tunnels and the corridors and the murder of that old man, in the mess and frenzy that surrounded him all over, Tim didn’t manage to gather much. But he gathered enough to know Sasha is gone. 

To say that he handled it poorly is an understatement, as Tim chose to simply not handle the consequences of his boss _\- former boss? who fucking knows anymore, and who fucking cares -_ possibly murdering his former best friend, or that - that thing that looked like Sasha but _definitely wasn’t her_ doing something to her. He buried his feelings deep, deep, deep down, and did his best to just… carry on. Ignore it. It’s not like he had anyone to speak with about it, and so he just gave up on the effort of processing.

But he can’t escape it, can he? And when Jon finally comes back from wherever the hell he was, and Elias confesses to all of his crimes - _son of a bitch,_ Tim’s mind screams, anger and frustration and loss flooding him with hate for the man... 

When Jon says, _“Sasha died almost a year ago, Martin,”_ Tim’s vision blurs and his heart beats painfully in his chest, and he hears himself say something, he swears he can’t remember what because it’s too much - 

And then nothing matters anymore, does it?

It still takes him time, though. To understand he can’t carry all of this pain on his own. But even then, how do you mourn someone you don’t remember? That the face your mind conjures up every time you think of their name is not their face? A person whom in your heart you know you loved and cherished, but nothing about what you know of them in your mind makes sense?

Tim listens over and over again to the tapes with Sasha’s voice, the ones Jon claims have her real voice. He doesn’t recognize it, can’t match it up with what his mind thinks it knows, but at least it sounds somehow right.

She sounds like someone Tim could’ve been best friends with, a long time ago. 

_I can’t do this alone anymore,_ Tim thinks one night, staring at the ceiling of his bedroom after another replay of one of the tapes, the one with Sasha’s statement (he doesn’t particularly like the one from the Jane Prentiss attack.) _I thought mourning her by myself would be better, that I could find… what did I even want, when I asked to take the tapes home? It won’t bring her back, and I still have no fucking idea who she was._ He feels the tears rising in his eyes, and lets out a frustrated sigh before pushing himself off the mattress and jumping to his feet. _Get over yourself and do something, Stoker._

After a moment of thought, Tim picks up his phone, and calls Melanie. He starts pacing around the room as soon as he presses to dial.

“What?” The voice that answers him is sharp, irritated. Tim forces himself not to get angry. _It’s so easy to be angry._

“Look, I know we’re not close or anything, but…,” he pauses, stopping in place, and his voice drops quieter. “I want to meet up. And talk about Sasha. You remember her, so I just…”

“Ha.” The sound that comes from the other end is surprised, and when she answers a few seconds later, Melanie’s voice is softer than Tim has ever heard before. “Sure, Stoker. Not now, but… we’ll talk about it?”

“Yeah.” Tim closes his eyes. “Thanks, Melanie.”

“Yeah.” She hangs up.

Tim opens his eyes, staring outside the window for a moment. He lives up high, but he can still hear London in all its glory, cars honking here and there, wheels sliding against asphalt, a neighbor calling out something incomprehensible from down below.

 _This used to be comforting._ He falls back onto his bed, again staring up. _Now it just sucks._

And though he knows it doesn’t do any good, Tim presses play on the recorder once again.

___________

They meet up in a cafe that Melanie picked the next day, a few hours after they both finished their work at the institute. It’s not like there’s much to do, especially now that Jon is back and has started assigning tasks again (well, at least he tries to, when he’s not closed up in the mess they used to call his office), so it’s still fairly early evening when Tim enters the small cafe. Melanie’s already there, holding a menu and tapping its end against the table in no specific rhythm. It seems that between work today and now she got herself a new haircut, a small halo of green curls surrounding her head. She doesn’t smile when she sees him, but she does raise her hand in acknowledgement, and that’s more than enough for Tim. He knows Melanie’s mood hasn’t been great since she joined the institute, and if Tim has to be honest, he doesn’t blame her a bit.

“Hey,” he greets her, sliding to the seat in front of her.

Melanie doesn’t look up from the menu, though it doesn’t seem like she’s actually reading it. “What’s up?”

“What isn’t?” Tim replies, and Melanie lets out a small snort of dry laughter. _In another life, we could’ve been friends,,_ the thought fleets through Tim’s mind. _But this is where we ended up._

“Guess you’re right. Anything you want to order?” She’s already looking around, trying to catch the attention of one of the baristas. One of them notices the pair, a girl with tired eyes behind big glasses, and rushes over as soon as she realizes Melanie is waiting. “Hey, would you like to make your order?”

“Just coffee for me,” Tim supplies, as he didn’t really have the time to pick something, and so he takes his usual. “Latte macchiato, big.”

The girl scrawls his order quickly, and then turns her look expectantly to Melanie. “I’ll take the coffee and cookies, so… butter cookies and macchiato? Small.”

“Sure. So, we have one small macchiato and butter cookies, and one big latte macchiato?” Melanie nods, while Tim gives a noncommittal sound of approval, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. The girl gives a faint smile. “Great. My name is Sarah, so if you need anything just let me know.”

“Thanks,” they both murmur, and together they are somehow audible. Sarah walks away and they are left in silence, each unsure how to really start this kind of conversation.

Tim starts tapping his heels against the floor, staring at the table in front of him and contemplating what he should say next. He hadn’t actually planned what he’s about to say or ask - partially because it scared him, partially because he genuinely didn’t know.

Luckily for Tim, Melanie saves him from this awkwardness by breaking the silence first. “Never took you for a latte guy,” she pipes up, trying to give her voice a somewhat casual tone, but it comes out as more high and tired than actually cheerful.

“Seasons change, but how a guy likes his coffee doesn’t, I suppose,” Tim chuckles, looking up at Melanie, who’s apparently sitting across the table almost in the exact same position as him: arms crossed, leaning back, shoulders tensed up and stiff in their place. When Tim’s subconscious recognizes that, his muscles relax, and he’s straightening up in the chair only to let his elbows fall on the table and his back slump a little forward. “Uh… Nice haircut you got there.” 

Melanie actually grins at that, and even if her smile is fleeting, it’s definitely there. She passes a hand through her newly colored curls and shakes them up a bit, as if to show them off, and Tim returns a small genuine smile of his own. “Thanks,” she replies, arranging them back into place without actually checking what she’s doing. “Thought it was time for a change.” 

Tim gets the feeling. Working at the institute has taken a lot from all of them, whether it was their nerves, safety, liberty, or people they love. You can’t do much about most of these, but you can still utilize your remaining liberties to their extent. This started a wave of the most inappropriate clothes you can come to work with at the archival crew, simultaneously and without really talking about it. Martin started coming with baggier and baggier clothes, the sort you’d wear at home with slippers and a cup of tea; both Basira and Melanie come to work wearing shirts with _very_ creative wordings; and Tim now opts for his more… inappropriate clothing, one might say. He thinks they look just fine, but, well… each to their own opinions. (He isn’t sure, but he thinks he managed to actually piss off Elias a few times, considering the irritated stare with lips pressed to a hard line he receives from him on a weekly basis now. Definitely one of Tim’s greatest pleasures.) Even Jon has given up completely on any resemblance of work attire, switching the vests and somewhat cheap suits to loose ties and crumpled button up shirts, which always seem to be worn a little wrong. _Though that doesn’t seem like an act of rebellion, and more like the boss is all over the place._ Tim shakes himself internally, pulling himself out of his own train of thoughts. _I probably just stared like an idiot._ “Yeah,” he lets out, hoping he saved himself from complete embarrassment. 

Either Melanie doesn’t notice, or she doesn’t care, but she isn’t giving him any weird looks, so Tim figures he’s in the clear. He opens his mouth to say something, try and start this grim conversation, but at that exact moment the barista - Sarah - decides to come back with their order. Actually, it seems she’s carrying a little more than just that, balancing three different trays on her arms. “There you go,” she says slowly as she carefully sets down one of the trays. “Have fu - ,” Sarah starts, but someone is calling her name from across the shop - probably another waiter - and she heads off mid-sentence. 

Melanie grabs the plate of cookies and starts nibbling one of them, taking another in her free hand and offering it up to Tim. “Want some?”

“That’s fine, keep it.” He takes his own coffee and adds two spoons of sugar, and starts stirring it around in the cup, without actually touching his drink.

“Hmm.” Melanie keeps nibbling for a few more seconds, and then she puts down the biscuit and looks at him. “You were going to say?”

“Eh. Right.” Tim breathes in through his nose and leans back, trying to phrase the question. “Look, I just… I don’t remember, okay? It’s all mixed up, and I just want to know how… the _real_ Sasha used to be, y’know?”

Something in Melanie’s eyes softens, her usually harsh stare now turning to almost warm. “Not really, but… I can do my best to help.” She lays her arms on the table, spreading her fingers and leaning in. “What do you want to know?”

“Well, I guess… what did she look like?” 

Melanie looks up, and lets out a small sad chuckle. “Sasha was… beautiful. Probably one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever seen, if I’m honest.” She looks back at Tim, and something in the way she looks at him feels like a stab of pain to the chest. “She had long curls and amber skin, and in the time I saw her she also had circular glasses, you know, the hipster kind? And she seemed like a person who smiles a lot, teeth and all. When I met her she also wore an orange sweater, so maybe that was a part of her style, though I can’t really know. “ Melanie gives a small shrug. “Can’t tell you much more on this part, sorry. I didn’t actually know her.”

“No, that’s fine, I get it,” Tim murmurs, his mind still trying in vain to replace the face he remembers with the short description Melanie just gave him. The Sasha he remembers didn’t seem to smile much in the last few months they’ve known each other, and had blonde hair that didn’t look natural, and definitely wasn’t the sort of person to wear orange, or warm colors at all. Admittedly, the Sasha Tim remembers wasn’t his friend, and it didn’t feel like she could’ve ever been one. _You should have known someone like her could have never been your best friend,_ a voice in his thoughts whispers, and his chest is filled with aching misery. _Shut up. It’s not my fault._

“I… can you just tell me anything you remember about her? I understand it’s not much, but it’s probably more than what I have.”

“Yeah, sure, just… give me a moment.” Melanie picks up another biscuit and starts eating in silence, seemingly letting her thoughts wander. Tim knows better than to interrupt, so in the meantime he picks up his latte and wraps his hands around the glass, letting the warmth sip through and work its way from his hands to the rest of his body. The cafe is busy around them, bits of conversation thrown in the air and baristas running around, trying to cope with the load of orders. But somehow it feels to Tim as though they created a small bubble around their table, and none of the hustle really reaches him. He takes a sip of his coffee, and the warmth now travels down, passing his aching heart. But as much as Tim hopes it’d help him feel a little better, it doesn’t.

“Sasha just seemed like a nice person,” Melanie suddenly says, and Tim looks back to her, his eyes probably showing just how much he drinks in every little word Melanie is giving him. “She really did. We talked about haunted pubs, actually, it was nice. She was smart, you know, with those snarky comments and a bit of academia speaking style when she talked about them, but it wasn’t in an arrogant way, so it didn’t really bother me. And actually, she also spoke about the archives a lot. Said it’s a weird place, and that your boss is a prick.”

Tim chuckles, trying to hide the fact he’s about to cry, because hearing those words like everything is normal and they’re once again in a time where his biggest problems are a too demanding boss and lack of sunlight is a bit too much for him. “She’s not wrong.” _Wasn’t wrong._

Melanie sniffles, laughing without much humor. “Yeah, definitely.” She’s now leaning too far back, the front legs of her chair slightly rising from the floor. “But I think she liked the job, even with that. Told me everything in a bit of a fond tone, even when she complained about stuff. And when she talked about you, and Martin, well… I think she enjoyed it, working with the two of you. Gave the impression you were this little gang of friends.”

“That’s, eh… That’s good to hear.” Tim is now sniffling too, because this is definitely too much memories and grief for one evening, and if there’s one thing he didn’t plan on doing tonight, it’s crying in a cafe. “Not that it matters much now, but… I don’t know, it’s just good to hear she was happy. If that makes any sense.”

“Absolute sense, if you ask me,” Melanie snickers, and then they’re both sort of laughing quietly whilst wiping their eyes, their shoulders rising and falling in short trembles. Because sometimes the emotions flood your heart so much you feel as though you cannot breathe, and the only way you can let loose of some of the weight is to let yourself, just for a moment, be uncontrollably human. 

It takes them a little more than a moment to calm down, and when Tim looks again at the woman before him through watery eyes, he sees she’s in not much better state than him. “I know we’re not close, or anything, but I… thank you for this.”

“I get it, Stoker.” She tips her chin forward towards the glass in front of him, which is still mostly full. “Now shut up and drink the latte, okay? It’s getting cold.”

“Yeah, sure.” He sniffles once again and takes the cup, staring away to no specific point. They once again sink into silence, one of many in such a short time, but it doesn’t feel as heavy as the others. It’s comfortable and welcomed; they both need the little quiet they can get.

 _I don’t think I feel particularly any better,_ Tim thinks, trying to understand what is it that has changed for him today. _I just feel… different. It’s not that Sasha’s suddenly alive, or that I am grieving any less, even more, now that I know. But… maybe it’s a beginning of closure. And at least that’s something._

Tim drinks his coffee without uttering a word, without reading in his phone to pass the time, without doing anything at all. All he does is let himself be here, aware and living and _feeling_ , until the drink is done and he feels ready to once again face his own life.

He looks at Melanie. “I’m asking for the bill, if you’re done?” She nods her head, so Tim raises his hand to catch the attention of Sarah, for whom it seems like the past half of an hour has been dragging for much longer. She heads over the table, fixing her glasses on the way. “Hey guys, you had fun? Anything else you want?”

“Er, no, thank you, just the bill,” Melanie responds. Tim is already fumbling for his wallet through all of his pockets, first of the jeans and then through his jacket, until his hand meets the leather and he pulls it out.

By the time he found it Sarah already went and came back, and she sits a small silver tray and a paper attached to it on the table. “Here you go.”

Tim glances at the bill, and then hands Sarah eight pounds. “That should cover it for the both of us?”

“Sure, just give me a sec and I’ll be back with your change.” The moment Sarah turns around, Tim feels something hitting him in the leg. “Melanie!”

Her eyes narrow. “I can pay for myself, Stoker.”

“You covered me for lunch last week! I told you next time I’m covering up for you.”

Melanie’s eyes now widen, and then she ducks her head down a little. “Oh. Right.” She crosses her arms, raising her shoulders apologetically. “Sorry?” 

“Forgiven. But just because you didn’t hit me with the heel of your boot.” Tim smiles, and she laughs. “You’re taking the tube on the way back?”

“Nah, don’t need it.” She shrugs, and when Tim raises an eyebrow quizzically, she gives him a crooked smile. “I’m selfish, so I picked a place ten minutes from my flat.”

Tim’s laughter is more of a short bark, deep and genuine. “I let you pick, so that’s on me.” 

Sarah returns with their receipt, and a few small coins. “That’s all, so… enjoy the rest of the day,” she wishes them, a bit tiredly. 

“Thank you so much!” Melanie calls after her. She seems better than the state she was in before, and Tim is surprised to find, when he examines his own mental state, that he is, too, feeling a little better in general. _Ha. That’s good._

Melanie slowly gets up, picking up her bag and throwing it on one shoulder. “See you tomorrow, then?” 

Tim snickers. “Unless I get eaten on the way home, then sure.” 

“Right.” She fumbles in her pockets for a moment, until getting out a pound and throwing it on the receipt. “Anyways, I’m covering the tip. You’re staying here, or what?”

“Just thinking, is all. Don’t worry, I don’t have plans of stalking the place.” He tilts his chin up, looking at her. “Thank you, Melanie. I mean it.”

“Sure.” Melanie gives him a small salute of goodbye and a small smile, and then she turns and walks away and out of the cafe.

Tim lingers for one more moment, contemplating the pound bill sitting in front of him on the table. After a moment of thought he gets up and takes a pound out of his wallet, dropping it on top of the other. The corner of his mouth rises for a moment, and then he, too, walks out to the warm evening, and starts making his way to the closest station.

He left a good tip. _Sarah seemed to be working hard,_ Tim thinks to himself. _And besides, someone out there deserves to have a good day._

His life is not any simpler. He’s not any less angry, or sad.

But for this moment, at least, Tim feels like he might make through it all.


	3. Basira

Basira isn’t used to the feeling of being all on her own. 

Being an only child, both her parents gave all their attention to her, surrounding her with love and support and encouraging their girl to pursue her dreams wherever they may lead her. So sure, there were tough times, through school and playground fights and trips with friends that ended with everyone angry at each other, but at least she came back to open arms, a family dinner, and a quiet evening reading books at the living room. Basira always had them to turn to. And as the years passed she learned to expand her circle of friends, creating a web of connections that made her life happy.

Her mother passed away when she was nineteen, her father passing only a few months afterwards. It wasn’t that sudden - both her parents became sick around the time Basira entered teenagehood, and somewhere in her guts she knew it was coming. Still, it didn’t stop the pain from hitting her like a carefully calculated punch to the chest, loss like she never faced before. But she had her connections, her safe places, and so she made it through. When she felt like she could move forward, Basira promised herself she would not bear this kind of weight in her stomach ever again.

Basira now knows she was wrong to trust life to become any easier. 

Ever since the Unknowing it feels to her as though she is falling, constantly losing her grip on reality, her senses fighting every passing moment to keep her legs steady on the ground and her head held up high. Basira’s a woman of sense and power - she musters through, no matter the hardships. To the outside world, she’s functioning, staying wise and keen in every interaction. But on the inside she’s barely holding herself together, her every nerve whispering to her through the nights and days alike: _she’s gone, she’s gone, she’s gone. Daisy’s gone and she is not coming back._

And more than everything, Basira’s alone.

___________

Time, as in its nature, doesn’t wait for anyone, and Basira is no exception for it. She’s been spending the last few weeks in her flat, reading books and crying for a considerable amount of time of her paid leave, her few social events being meeting with Melanie to get wasted (Martin came once, but he didn’t seem to enjoy it much.) But now the time she was given by the Institute is over, and she has to come back to the Archives. It doesn’t matter that she hasn’t recovered, that every breath still hurts. _Come back or you’ll die, because fear entities are still a thing. How great that this is the one thing that didn’t change._

When she comes into the Archives Monday morning, she’s stopping on her heels, surprised to find the place empty. Basira’s always been an early riser, sure, but some part of her still expected to find Jon, recording a statement or already making the second cup of coffee for the day. _But Jon is all but alive, and he probably won’t come back. None of them would._

She knows that they didn’t find Daisy’s remains, and Basira does her best not get her hopes too high up. _Who knows what had happened there that could’ve caused that,_ she thinks. A part of her has the unnerving suspicion that the circus could do something like that, pull a last trick on her as revenge for sabotaging the ritual. For her own sanity, she tries not to listen to either side, and just fight to cope with the current reality.

Shaking herself from the grim trail of thoughts, Basira makes her way to the kitchenette to make herself some coffee before starting work. A message she received yesterday from Rosie told her the new and elusive boss, Lukas, will send in an email with all what needs to be done around the archives. _Sounds delightful._ The milk has gone bad weeks ago, but they still have enough coffee left, so Basira fills the electric kettle and turns it on and then goes to wash some of the glasses and spoons, as the kitchenware managed to gather a thin layer of dust in the time the place was empty. She’s already pouring water into her cup when she hears the gentle hush of the lift doors opening in the corridor, and then the murmur of quiet conversation. _And here we go._

Basira takes her coffee and goes back to the assistants’ office, where Melanie and Martin are already attempting to organize the tables, which were left in a typical disarray the last time they were all here. “Morning,” she greets quietly, stopping at the threshold of the door and leaning slightly against its frame.

Martin raises his eyes to greet her with a tired smile, but Melanie jumps a little in place, glaring only to relax her shoulders after catching Basira’s sight. “Jesus, Basira, you gave me a heart attack.”

“Sorry,” Basira shrugs, still speaking quietly. There’s a strange atmosphere in the room, like they are all starting to replay a show they’ve put on a hundred times, but half the actors are missing in a way that left a void behind them. “I thought you heard me. Oh, so there’s water and cups ready, if you want anything.”

Melanie drops the document she was trying to find a place for and gives Basira a thankful look. “Bless your thinking, I’m fucking wasted.”

“I can relate to the sentiment, believe me,” Basira snickers while Melanie brushes past her, and then it’s just her and Martin, who’s yet to actually say something. Sipping from her coffee, she observes him a little more closely than a glance. It’s not hard to pick on how tired Martin is: his eyes have deep and dark circles around them, his skin is paler than usual, and the whole way in which he carries himself radiates a severe lack of sleep. _It must be hard on him, too. Considering Jon._ Her gaze drifts to the edge of the room, where the most disorganized desk sits, untouched and forever empty now. _Considering Tim._ She feels her heart dropping, and her fingers lightly tighten around the handle of the mug. _Focus. Don’t lose it, don’t let the memories get to you. Act normal, and keep going._

With a decisive motion, Basira pushes herself from the wall and goes to settle in front of her desk, setting the cup aside for a few moments as she clears her own table, placing each pen and paper with almost too much attention, until it’s all neatly organized in place. Order calms Basira - her mother used to say that if you keep your belongings where you can find them, you’ll know how to never get lost. Basira doesn’t know if it’s true or if it’s just because she believes it so firmly, but to this day she finds order to be grounding, allowing her a sense of control and direction.

She’s already about to open up the computer when she spots it - just under the screen, laying on her table, a folded piece of paper. But it’s not the paper that makes Basira freeze in place, the air escaping her lungs with a strangled sound. No, what turns her world upside down in a moment is the fact that her name is scribbled on top of that paper, in sharp writing Basira knows all too well. She picks it up with caution, as though she’s afraid it’s about to explode. _Not here. I can’t deal with it here, I just can’t._

Abruptly, Basira pushes herself out of the chair and rushes out of the room, paying no mind to the quizzical look Martin gives her, all her focus on just finding somewhere quiet, somewhere safe. She stops in place at the corridor, quickly weighing her options, and decides to listen to the instinct that tells her the only way to be safe is to be far away. _Lift it is._

A few weeks after Basira had started her work at the institute, she decided to take a whole day to explore the building. Between reading up every book she could put her hands on and researching things regarding various statements and the Unknowing, she hadn’t really had the time to truly explore the ancient place. Basira had always loved exploring interesting structures, whether they were complex museums or abandoned castles from centuries ago, and for her the institute fell into that category of interesting.

After a few hours of making her way from down in the archives up to the different departments and making light conversation with a few of the employees she hadn’t got around to chatting with before, Basira had found a short metal staircase leading up to the roof of the building. She’d climbed up with curiosity in her heart, and to her surprise and delight she found the door on the top wasn’t locked. It was at the beginning of summer, and a light breeze had welcomed Basira as she set foot upon the gray polished stone. The institute was built in the time of gothic revival, and so the roof was highly pitched, a high arched triangle with a few smaller ones surrounding it. And there, between the stones and metal, Basira found a small nook, hidden away from the eye. The moment she spotted it she fell in love with it, and she often climbed to the place to take a break from the hustle, or to just read a good book.

This is the place Basira ran to now, the only spot close to her she knew with certainty to be hers and hers alone. Unlike her first time there, the air is now cold, a September day turned wrong, and the wind greets her cheeks with a sharp blow as she hurries to her spot, careful not to slip. She lets her body fall to the ground in a graceful movement, her shoulders already pushing themselves against the wall, and at least some part of Basira finds comfort in the familiarity of her surroundings. She brings her legs up against her chest, which is rising and falling quickly, her blood thrumming in her ears. 

Basira tries to relax for a few seconds, to calm her breath back to at least semi-normal rate. She closes her eyes, filling her lungs with a sharp inhale, and when she opens them she dares to finally unfold the paper.

_Basira,_ it opens, and her eyes already start to well up with tears.

_Basira,_

_I hate this. Never was good with words, and I don’t want to write these ones. But there’s stuff I want to say. In case I don’t make it back._

_I just wanted to say I'm sorry. I didn’t trust you enough and I should have. You were right about many things, and you would’ve did better than me. I think that if you never read this letter then I’d try and be better. I’ve got no one else but you._

_You’re the bravest and smartest of them all, Basira. You’re the best woman in this world, and I’m lucky that you have my back. I’m lucky that you protect me and love me. You make it worth it._

_I love you._

_Daisy_

By the time she finishes reading the letter, Basira’s vision is blurred and her cheeks are wet, and so she closes her eyes and clutches the paper close to her heart as her whole body shakes in silent sobs. For a short while, she can’t think, can’t understand. The only things that she feels are the fierce as fire love she has for Daisy, a love that will never go away, and a bone aching pain that comes from knowing the person you love the most might be gone forever.

When the intensity of her feelings subsides a little, Basira opens her eyes, sniffling, and tries to wipe away some of the tears with her one hand, the other keeps on holding the letter close to her heart. She’s still quivering, though, and it takes her a few moments of forced slow breaths to feel the edge of stableness within her, like a boat caught up in a storm that after hours at sea finally spots a glimpse of dry land. 

Basira looks out, to the roofs of London and up to a gray sky, the clouds gathering above the city the sign of a coming storm. The wind is whistling and howling between the rooftops, against metal and stone, warning people to stay inside, make some tea, and be with each other.

Basira doesn’t have much to hold on to, and her heart is not with her, not truly. But at this moment she knows which side she listens to. It doesn’t matter Daisy is not with her; if she can, she will find her, wherever she may be.

“If you’re out there, I’ll find you,” Basira whispers to the wind, wishing that in some way, it will carry her promise for eternity. “I still have your back, Daisy, and I won’t stop looking until I _know._ ”

Slowly, Basira folds back the letter, and tucks it in the pocket of her coat. She then closes her eyes one more time, and when she opens them she’s up on her feet, the promise she made burning in her heart as her new driving force. 

She has a purpose, she has life. And so, Basira’s life begins to once again move forward.

_Basira sitting on the Magnus Institute's roof, reading Daisy’s letter._


	4. Martin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note - this chapter is heavier than others, at least in my opinion, so please do take care and skip if you feel like you have to.  
> Content warning for this chapter: signs of depression, mention of an abusive parent.

Martin remembers so many tragic events in his life, it’s hard to count them all. 

He remembers his father packing a suitcase, kissing him on his forehead, leaving the house one last time. He also remembers the days and nights of the time he was already a teen, struggling to pass his exams while working a job and caring for his mother; whom, no matter what he did, ended their short conversations by screaming at him to get away from her, never looking him in the eye. Sometimes, when the memories creep at the loneliest of nights, Martin’s mind falls back to those days, and the sheets feel to him like the ones he used to cover himself with in his old twin bed, made for a child, too small for his teen body. And though years have passed, in these nights Martin does just the same, curls up tight with all the blankets he can find and cries himself to sleep.

Then Martin remembers worms and corridors and the loss of a friend, and afterwards months of fear and dread, of lying and mistrust.

At least he never felt like the world turned upside down. He always knew that he can make it through, just because he has to. But that day of losing all he has truly known comes. Martin doesn’t know much about how exactly he reacted, what he said or did, just that he had never cried as much as he had the day he got the news about what went down at the wax museum.

The news about Tim. 

About Jon.

___________

At the beginning he goes to the hospital at least once a day, morning or evening, if not both. Sometimes Georgie’s there, a few times Basira or Melanie, but he mostly comes alone. He leaves flowers, different ones every day: red chrysanthemums for love, hibiscuses for beauty, daisies for hope. Martin knows Jon can’t know he’s bringing him flowers, and that even if he were awake he probably wouldn’t understand.  _ Maybe he would’ve just Known, though.  _ He keeps on bringing them anyway, first wrapped in a bow and then in improvised vases, mugs he doesn’t use anymore or a bowl he feels like his barely used kitchen can spare.  _ When Jon wakes up, he’ll have a small garden, _ Martin tells himself, when he wonders what’s the point in doing that.  _ And he’ll know someone cares, and that will make him feel better.  _

Besides that, Martin doesn’t actually know what else he can do to make anything better, not for the people around him and not for himself. He walks around with a gaping hole in his stomach and a lump in his throat, every place he goes to reminding him of the people he lost, or is afraid of losing. At first they’re still in the archives, and no matter where he looks, the memories of the past haunt him: Daisy sitting on top of Basira’s desk, chatting with her quietly; Tim leaning back in his chair, throwing a comment into a conversation, not looking up from his Switch; Jon, passing through the assistants’ office to check up on a statement, his hair disheveled, his sleeves rolled up unevenly, his glasses on the verge of falling off his nose and his voice a mix of exhaustion and honesty, honesty Martin wishes he can hear more of, someday soon.

Afterwards there’s the paid leave, but it doesn’t make things any better for him. His flat is empty and hollow more than ever, like all that he lost followed him there, too. And it’s not like he has much to do, or the desire to do much. His days become a bleak routine: he brings Jon flowers, makes more tea than he can drink by himself, and scribbles half completed sentences in his poetry notebook, trying to convey his emotions in repeated failed attempts. He sometimes keeps one of the flowers he purchases to himself, tucking it between the pages to remind himself to keep holding on to hope.

Sure, maybe Martin isn’t handling what happened very well. But at least he tries to handle it, even if it’s coping with just some of what happened and not in a very good way.

The thing is, he knows how to handle hope. Jon isn’t dead yet, not really, and there’s a chance. If there’s a chance, there’s still hope, and even if Martin doesn’t know yet for how much longer he can hold onto it, at the very least, it’s still there.

He doesn’t, however, know how he’s supposed to mourn Tim.

Martin read up on the five stages of grief. He knows that at the end of the process, you’re supposed to come to a stage of acceptance; to understand that it has happened, and that your life needs to move on. In a new way, but it should. 

But Martin can’t accept the acceptance; how is he supposed to? He never had a friend as close as Tim, certainly not for as long as they were friends, and even with how they grew apart in the last year, he still meant something special to Martin.  _ I just don’t know what life will look like if I dare accept this, _ he thinks, every time he is reminded of Tim, whether it’s because there’s a song on the radio Tim liked, or a photo of them he skims across in his gallery, or just because Martin thinks about Tim quite a lot regardless.  _ And even if I want to accept this, I don’t know how I should do that. _

___________

Eventually, he starts bringing flowers to Tim, too.

Martin can’t drive to his grave every day, of course, but he finds where to place flowers at. He starts a few days after they’re back in the archives, bringing with him a vase of poppies to Tim’s desk. He replaces the flowers every few days, making sure that the colour is different, watering them and placing them strategically under lamps. On the weekends Martin makes the drive to Tim’s grave with a large bouquet and a solemn look in his eyes, and he can’t help but feel a pang of pain in his chest when he notices there are never other people coming to mourn there, never other flowers but his.  _ I know Tim became a harsher man in the last months of his life - god, I hate those words, I just hate them - but I thought he’d have more people coming to him than just… me.  _ Somehow, this just makes Martin blame himself for not coming before.

Martin isn’t really sure this is even helping him feel any better, if this is the way to mourn. He’s still sad, still hurting and aching, still feels like whatever he does, it doesn’t change anything.

What he is sure of, though, is that if he keeps on buying flowers for both Jon and Tim, it’ll start affecting him financially. That, of course, doesn’t mean in any way Martin is about to stop bringing said flowers; it just means he has to get a little more creative about it. So he goes to the public parks and gardens, picking and plucking anything that looks pretty and is allowed. The plants turn from ones with meanings to those which Martin just found to be beautiful or good-smelling; the variety also expands, turning from solely flowers to a mix of blooms, sprouts and herbs. Martin even goes the length of planting some of them. Soon the window at Jon’s hospital room is adorned with a small garden of basil and rosemary, lemongrass and mint, and Tim's table now hosts at least three different kinds of spices.

It goes on until almost the end of September before anyone says anything. It’s Wednesday, and he’s coming to visit Jon after three days he didn’t come - untypical of him, but he feels powerless to do much, and just today found the energy in himself to go and collect new flowers for Jon (lots of white lilies, with a few dandelions.) When he enters he finds Georgie there, curled on top of a chair, hugging her legs against her chest and wrapping herself with the warmness of her sweater. Her eyes are closed, but when she hears the door open, she looks up, giving Martin a small tired smile. 

“Evening, Martin,” she says softly. 

He raises his free hand in greeting to her. “Hey, Georgie, how’s it going.”

“Hmm,” she hums, not really giving an answer, and closes her eyes again. Martin doesn’t press, just drags the other chair from the side of the room near Jon’s bed, and with heavy movement sits down.

Jon isn’t looking too different.  _ Not that he has a reason to, when you think about it. _ He looks peaceful, but again, there’s nothing happy about looking peaceful when you look like this in a hospital bed for three months already. It keeps bothering Martin, the way the blanket which covers Jon isn’t even slightly moving, a simple yet sharp reminder that Jon is not breathing. Martin takes in a shuddering breath, sniffling in an attempt not to cry. He almost always does, when he comes to visit. Not that it stops him from keeping on coming.

Martin closes his eyes, his hand still wrapped around the flowers, resting them against his thigh.  _ Wake up, Jon. _ His thoughts beg, and the only reason Martin doesn’t speak them aloud is that he’s not alone. He always tells Jon something, even if it’s a one sided conversation.  _ Please. I know you’re still in there, somewhere. I don’t know if you can see me, if you can sense me here in any way, and I sure know that you can’t hear any of what goes on in my head, or else you would’ve woken up already. Just… please. I’m lost, and I don’t know how much longer it will take before I can’t find my way back. _

When he opens his eyes, Martin sees the room through the fog of tears, and he sniffles and wipes his eyes, his movements the only sound in the room besides the fan swirling somewhere above and the clock on the wall slowly ticking. Georgie doesn’t react to Martin, just sits there with her eyes closed, and Martin is grateful for her allowing him this little privacy. 

Now that he’s said to himself what he wanted to say, Martin allows his mind some rest, so he lets his thoughts wander as his eyes drift across the room. He can’t help but to be content with how much his work has brought the place to life; the space doesn’t feel as empty as it did when he was first here, the ever-changing vegetation granting it a sense of a living garden that grows and spreads. Maybe  _ I can plant some tea leaves. That would be nice. _

“Martin?”

Martin jumps a little in place, startled by the sudden cut to his trail of thoughts, and looks to Georgie, who has now opened her eyes and leaned back in the chair, her legs still resting folded up on it. “Yeah, what?”

“If you don’t mind telling me, why do you grow all of this?” She leaves her guarded position, motioning with her hand to the small garden around them. “Not only here, I mean. Melanie told me you have another one at the archives, at Tim’s desk.”

“Oh.” Martin takes a long inhale, unsure how he’s supposed to respond to that, if he even wants to.  _ I sometimes forget that Jon’s Georgie and the one Melanie knows are just the same person.  _ “Why are you asking?”

Georgies sighs. “Because I’m a bit worried about this, Martin. Look, I’m sorry if it’s not my business, but every time I come here to check up on Jon it just seems to expand, and I think you’re putting too much into it. You know it won’t do much to just bring more, do you?”

Martin gives out a little dry laugh, his shoulders shaking in place as he tries very hard to keep his voice stable. “Oh, I know it doesn’t change anything. If it did I’d plant a whole forest.” He looks down at the lilies and dandelions that still seem so fresh, so much more alive than most of the things in this room, including himself. “I started it because I thought it’d be nice for Jon, you know? When he wakes up. ‘Oh, don’t worry, Martin, every second now and Jon will be back, and he’d be happy to see someone left him flowers!’” Martin laughs again, the bitterness that has been building in him slowly all this time letting itself slip out, even if just by a little; white knuckles tightening around the delicate stalks, a beat from crushing them. “Stupid of me, really, being that hopeful. Things don’t work like that, they never do.”

He stops, looking back up to Georgie, who hasn’t said a word, but is watching him, listening intently. When she still doesn’t say a thing, he feels right to continue, picking up the pace as he goes. “I guess I just.. need to do something. Because I don’t know how to help, or how to change anything, or how to bring Tim back. I can’t do any of those, and I know it, I’m not stupid like that. But if I don’t at least try and - and do my own thing, whatever it is, then I’ll just go mad with how everything is so tragic all the time.” Martin deflates, slumping in the chair. “Sorry. Eh, didn’t plan on rambling on that much.”  _ Always too much. _

“No, it’s fine, really.” Georgie opens her mouth, hesitating, and interlaces her fingers in front of her chest as she contemplates on how to phrase her next sentences. “I get it, Martin. I do. And it’s good to have a coping mechanism. But… you are aware of the fact you can’t move on as long as you keep doing it, right? It’s not healthy to keep doing it for too long.”

“Georgie…,” Martin pleads, because he knows.  _ I just can’t move on. Not yet. Not yet. _

She sighs. “Alright.” Georgie raises her head and rolls her shoulders, like she’s trying to wake up. “I have to go, it’s getting late for me, and the Admiral would be angry with me if I don’t come home soon.”

Martin gives her a weak smile, showing no sign he’s going anywhere in the near future. “Sure thing.”

Georgie gets up, her motions a little too loud in a room so empty, and instead of walking to the door, approaches Martin to place a reassuring hand upon his shoulders. “Take care of yourself, Martin.”

He ducks his head down, not looking at her, but lays his own hand on top of hers for a second. “You too, Georgie.”

“Yeah,” she murmurs, dropping her hand away, and then the door closes behind Martin and he’s alone with Jon.

Martin looks at him, laying there with eyes closed. He bites his lip for a moment before reaching over and placing the bouquet inside a vase sitting on the bedside table, already half filled with white wild roses. 

_ I’ll move on. Someday, I’ll move on. _ He takes another look at the garden, and closes his eyes, heaviness in his shoulders.  _ But today is not the day I do. _

___________

It’s early morning in the archives, so early that they’re not really supposed to be in yet, but both Basira and Martin are already sitting at their desks, typing away for quite some time now. It’s not that Martin became a workaholic all of the sudden; he just prefers the archives to his dead quiet flat. The institute is not a comforting place in any way, but at least he does something with himself when he’s there, and he gets to see people. Though, if he must admit, those encounters become less and less frequent than they used to be. It’s not hard to guess why, but what can Martin do about it?

He’s currently working on arranging the digital written records of statements from 1976 into sub-classifications on a spreadsheet, which is what he’s been doing for the past three days. Their new boss decided that the archives needed to be “a little more thorough in their filing system”, a task that gave everyone at the office a headache from the start of the week.  _ Like he cares about efficiency. He probably just wants us to work but doesn’t have a better idea for a task.  _ Martin hits a little too hard on the enter key.  _ Typical boss. _

That’s when his phone rings.

Martin lets it ring for a second or two more, first finishing his typing in the case file, and then turns over to pick up the device laying at the side of his desk. He’s already picking it up, a fraction of a second from sliding his finger, when his gaze finally meets the screen, and he freezes.

Floating on his screen, with simple black letters upon a white background, there’s a name he wished to never see in a call.

It’s the name of his mother’s care home.

They never call.  _ They never call, unless there’s an emergency. Unless… Unless… _

Numbly, he lets his body move for him, the fingers swiftly sliding across, his hand bringing the phone to his ear. His mind detaches from the world around him and his heart grows as heavy as a stone. “Hello?”

“Mr. Blackwood, we’re sorry to inform you that your mother’s condition has unexpectedly declined. If you want…” 

Martin doesn’t remember much after that. Everything becomes this indistinguishable blur, a series of events he can’t make sense of, something with no beginning and no end. He knows he ran out of the archives, out of the institute, out to the streets of London, and took a ride with the first taxi he found. 

Martin also knows that even though he did everything in his power to get there on time, he’s still late. That’s when the world falls apart, and Martin just barely finds a chair before his legs collapse beneath him, his whole body shaking violently with sobs and hiccups. He usually doesn’t let himself break like that near people, hiding how truly alone and miserable he sometimes feels, but this is too much, even for him. At that moment, Martin doesn’t even know why he feels so broken, just that he does, and that nothing seems like it can be whole ever again.

It’s how he finds himself a day later in a small graveyard, again with flowers in his hands, standing above his mother’s grave.

The graveyard is tragically lovely. It’s small, surrounded by a fence shaped in an intricate branching pattern, green and brown vines climbing and wrapping around in graceful swirls around the metal rods. The yard itself is scattered with flowers in clay vases and small trees, perfectly aligned bushes creating the rows of graves. The plants are not the only thing alive, though; bees and dragonflies are hazily floating around, and a few birds chirp from somewhere above Martin’s head. It’s truly heartwarming - a place of death that is also a ground for life, hope in face of an end. Martin doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry from how achingly optimistic this place feels.

The funeral was short and solemn; just Martin, the priest, and the grave itself. The priest looked during the whole thing like he’s pitying someone, though Martin can’t tell if it was him he felt sorry for or his mother, who had only a son she despised come to grieve for her. And now he’s left here standing, the only things to hold onto are the flowers in his hands, and he feels hopeless against the world he’s facing.

Martin could’ve asked someone to come, of course. Both Basira and Melanie suggested to come with him, but he declined. As it always was with his mother, he felt that the last part in their relationship he has to do alone.

Slowly, Martin crouches down, and gently lets go of the flowers. He didn’t wrap them with anything, and so the hydrangeas disengage as soon as he lets go, falling in an ungraceful, disorganized pile on the fresh soil. Martin rubs at his nose, staring with an unfocused look at the grave. His body just feels numb, out of touch with the world around him, and all he can feel is an aching space in his chest. 

The worst part of it all is that he doesn’t even know why he’s grieving so much.  _ My mother hated me. She never wanted me to take care of her, didn’t accept anything I tried to do for her, no matter how bad her condition was, how much she needed that help. She’d probably even despise me for being here, mourning for her. Everything about this is wrong. Then why do I still feel this way? _

Maybe it’s because he dedicated so much of his life to just try and take care of her for as long as he can, but still failed to prevent her early death. Maybe it’s because life already feels like shit to him, and it seems like the universe is playing a very cruel joke on him by testing how much loss he can take before he breaks. And maybe it’s because Martin, no matter how much he wishes to be detached from it, cares in someplace for the woman who wouldn’t even look at him.

_ It’s probably all of these. _

Whatever the reason, the one thing Martin is sure of is this: he’s never been more alone.

___________

Eventually, it’s the flesh attack that does it.

Martin tried, he really did. No matter how bad he felt, he held onto what he had left from the life he used to know. The work at the archives. Melanie and Basira. His plants. The fact that Jon was still, four months later, not alive, but not dead either.

But when the day comes and they appear, bone and flesh creatures constantly shifting, cracking, roaring out their hunger for his own body, the reality he has cultivated shatters around him like breaking glass, and something inside him finally gives up.

_ It doesn’t matter we got out alive, _ Martin thinks a few days later, lying in his bed up late at night. It doesn’t matter that the option he’s seriously considering is working for the person who, from an outside view, is a clear villain. But what else can he do? He’s lost everything. His life is just a constant nightmare, horror after horror trying to eat him up alive, and all the people he used to care about are gone.

_ After all, it doesn’t matter if Jon’s mind is working if he doesn’t wake up, right? _

This is what really shakes him up, the thought that all this hope was for nothing. That Jon may stay in the hospital for months, even years, while Martin’s world crumbles down until there’s nothing left but dust.  _ Or fog. Ha. _

_ Jon just might as well be gone by now, and I can never know if he is unless a miracle happens. _

The more he thinks about it, the possibility that Jon is gone, that Jon is dead, becomes more real, until it’s unbearable and he has to force himself out of bed to make tea. It’s past midnight, and he needs to be back at the institute in a few hours, but Martin doesn’t care. He needs something to do with his hands, something to occupy his mind, or else he’ll go mad with sorrow.

Stirring the sugar in his mug, Martin turns over in his head the options left for him. He can keep up this life he’s currently living, holding onto faint hope, or… he can go and work for Peter Lukas, like the man had suggested.

Martin doesn’t think coming to work for the Lonely avatar would keep him any safer. Sure, maybe Lukas can protect him from other entities, but he’s not a  _ safe _ person. Martin would be just replacing one danger for another with the same risk, if not a greater one. And he certainly won’t be happier.

_ But maybe it’ll help someone? When Peter first approached me, he said he’d keep everyone at the archives safe. The only thing I have to do is agree. Maybe I can at least do something with myself, be a little useful.  _ Martin sighs to himself and takes out the tea bag, throwing it into the sink. He can put it in the trash later.  _ I don’t know. I should think about it a little more, I guess.  _

Martin takes the hot mug and goes back to his bed, curling up into a ball on the mattress, holding the tea close to himself, the steams warming his neck and face, offering him a little sense of comfort. Still caught up in his own head, he glances over at the open window, noticing that the plants sitting at the edge have wilted. Somehow he’s managed to miss the fact he hadn’t watered them in over a week, and they seem to be beyond saving.

Martin bends his head down and sips from the tea - chamomile and honey, his go-to for whenever he feels in need of a hug. Seeing the dying plants only reminds him that the ones he kept on Tim’s desk have been thrashed in the attack, leaving behind them only broken red clay and wet soil, the leaves and stalks reduced to barely visible shreds. He thought about getting new ones, but it escaped his mind.

Or maybe he simply doesn’t have the power to actively care for something anymore.

He thinks back to the dying plants at the window. About the clatter of dishes that are slowly piling up in the sink, about the fact he cares less and less about what he wears or eats. About how the amount of flowers in Jon’s room at the hospital is reducing, as he comes not as often as before, and brings fewer of them each time he does come, forgetting to water the ones which need to be taken care of.

Martin doesn’t know yet what he’s going to choose to do.

But he thinks that maybe he’ll stop with the flowers altogether.

_Martin and his garden._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I looked up so many flower meanings


	5. Daisy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: alcohol, mention of trauma, mention of panic attacks, claustrophobia.

She’s falling, falling into dust and darkness, body and limbs hitting against old stone that closes in more and more. Daisy doesn’t know if she first fell and then crawled or if it was ever the opposite, but she does know that eventually the walls stop being her confinement and instead become the very essence of her existence, defining her space, all she sees and hears and tastes. There’s always the taste of earth on her tongue, but not of a forest or fresh ground; it’s a broken desert that she swallows, underground tunnels’ air she breathes. 

Time loses meaning seconds or days in, Daisy doesn’t actually know, her only measurement the current distance between her and the stones. She holds on tight to memories - the Unknowing, fighting. Basira. _She probably thinks I’m dead. Considering the letter. Maybe it’s better this way._

There’s not much more; everything else fades away, down here. Even the Hunt.

At least she can’t hear the blood anymore.

___________

“Jon - Jon, give it to me, it’s _mine,_ I brought it - “

“No no no, you - you had enough - “

Daisy tries to smack his leg with her hand, missing spectacularly. “You’re the one who’s falling!”

Jon barks out in laughter, and takes a step backwards, swaying a little before regaining his footing. He raises the bottle of wine higher, swinging it teasingly above her head. “If you’re so stable, come and get it!”

“Bastard,” Daisy mutters, slumping back against the wall, and blows away a particular strand of hair that keeps on insisting to land on her face. “You just want it all for yourself, no care for me here.”

“I’m not - it’s absolutely for your own health,” Jon protests, but he’s smiling wide and practically hugging the wine to his chest, stumbling away another few steps before finally falling down on his arse. His frail fingers tighten around the more than half emptied bottle, barely preventing it from falling and shattering. Daisy breaks out in laughter, holding her stomach to her while she face-palms with her other hand.

“Safety reasons,” Jon adds weakly, trying to maintain a somewhat serious demeanor even as his shoulders shake uncontrollably. After a few seconds, though, he gives up, the laughter bubbling out of his chest and bursting out, rolling and genuine. He lays his head back on the cot behind him, stomach shaking, and they both go on for good long moments until the laughter subsides. They sniff and cough, getting out the last bits giggles, and then fall into silence. _That’s alright. Silence with Jon is always fine._

They’re on the floor of the storage room, surrounded by signs of an improvised living space - boxes once used to actually store things pushed away, a few cots with blankets thrown over, and a storage cabinet turned closet. Daisy showed up at Jon’s office with a bottle of wine half an hour ago, and this is what they’ve been doing since then, just getting foolishly drunk at the almost empty institute at late evening.

Daisy doesn’t like spending time alone, especially not the nights. Usually she has Basira to keep her company; they hug each other and whisper reassuring words when the other has nightmares, curling under covers in their apartment, and if they stay to sleep in the archives, then they make do for the same cot. But Basira has gone off chasing down another one of Elias’ “leads” (or as Daisy thinks of them, a waste of time.) So she’s left alone. And when she’s alone, she can’t handle the nightmares of the coffin, and she can’t stop the memories and feelings from her time there from coming back crawling into her mind and heart.

So Daisy bought a bottle and came to Jon with the offer, and he didn’t even ask anything, just told her he’ll bring a corkscrew. _Thinking about it, Jon can probably use a break just as much as I do._

Jon coughs, breaking the silence, and Daisy picks her head up from where she stared at her own hands, her eyebrow raised in question. She feels a bit light headed, fuzzy around the edges of her body, but her mind is still keen enough to recognize that Jon has a question he’s not sure if he should ask. He’s nibbling on his lip, hesitating, and his shoulders go up by a little as he takes a deep breath, debating how he should phrase the question.

“Go on, spit it out,” Daisy sighs, waving her hand in the air to motion Jon to speak already. “You gonna ask it no matter what way, so get on with it.”

Jon’s face is stricken with relief - he was clearly struggling - and his whole body loosens, his curled up knees spreading long on the tiles. Jon finally leaves the bottle alone, placing it beside him, fingers of a tired and slightly drunk man more slipping away from the glass than letting go. “I - ah, wait, okay, just if you want to answer, so - why tonight?”

“Why tonight what?”

“Why - this,” Jon flails with his hand in no particular direction, and then taps the wine, the clanking echoing faintly around the room. “Wine and - and stories, and all that.”

Daisy shrugs. “Basira’s gone, Melanie’s not much around, you’re my friend. What’s wrong ‘bout that?”

“Yeah, that I know,” Jon shakes his head, refusing her answer. “That’s not what I mean. We usually just watch a movie or - or play a video game, even though I suck at it.”

Daisy chuckles in amusement. “You’re getting better.”

“You just say that to make me feel better, I always get killed.” Jon rubs his eyes with his fingertips, but he doesn’t take his glasses off, so for a moment they’re just crushed awkwardly against his forehead before falling back down to the edge of his nose. “But anyways, I’m just - why wine? And messing around in here, and all that?”

 _Guess there’s no way of getting out of that now. He’ll just keep asking. Bet he was like this even before becoming all-knowing._ “Fine. I’ll tell you. But move over, I want that wine if I’m talking feelings with you.”

Jon raises his eyebrows, probably surprised it went so easy. “Ah, sure! Yeah. Moving over, just give me a moment.” He scoots aside, leaving her space to also lean against the cot beside him. With effort, Daisy pushes a hand against the wall and stands up, making a few wobbly steps forward before falling down beside Jon, relatively gracefully for her current stability. She snatches the bottle and swigs the wine, the bitter liquid leaving a slight burn in her throat as it warms her chest and fills her veins. _That’s gonna be a hell of a hangover, if I don’t get some water._

Jon’s quiet, taking his knees to his chest, and he waits patiently for Daisy to speak. She takes her time, trying to formulate how she felt earlier. She fiddles with the wedding band on her left ring finger - simple, golden, matching the one Basira wears on her right hand, alongside the ruby ring on her pinky. Daisy proposed, two years ago, plenty of time before the institute and everything that followed. When she went into the coffin…

“You know grief, Jon?”

Jon picks his head up from the cot, where he curled beside it to a somewhat sleepy state. He pushes his glasses up, blinking a few times, regaining his awareness. “Ah, um, yeah.” Jon chuckles, sniffing. “Haven’t exactly had a shortage of it, lately.”

Daisy rubs her nose, looking away to the wall before her. “Yeah. Sorry, silly question.” She takes a deep breath in. “When I was in the coffin, it’s - it was - scary, and dark and dirt all over, and - I was all alone. But I thought - I thought maybe I can - find how to get out? In the beginning. You know, hope, and all that. I thought Basira, maybe - maybe I’d find her, or she finds me. I don’t know when I stopped believing that, stopped hoping.” Her voice becomes hoarse, tears rising in her throat, tightening her chest, but they don’t escape. Not yet. “So - so I started grieving for her, you know? For me not seeing her anymore. Because if I stay, and she’s not there, and I never see her - we’re both dead to each other. It’s the same. And it - it was hard, it hurt. My throat was so dry, but I could cry.”

Daisy sniffs a few times, hugging her arms tight against her chest. She tries to focus on her heartbeats, steady and reassuring below her ribs. Looking down at her forearms, she can still notice some of the pale scars the coffin gave her, the grinding of harsh stones and the sharp edges of falling gravel leaving her marked all over. When she speaks again her voice is shaking, choked by the tears which refuse to get out. “So, I’m out now. And that’s good. I have Basira, and it’s good. It really is. And - and it’s good here, too. Quiet, and I can rest. And you’re here. But when I’m alone, I start to remember, and sometimes - sometimes it feels like the walls are back. And I think, what if I - what if I lose her? It can’t - I can’t grieve again. It almost broke me the first time, and I don’t… I don’t forget. I still know what it feels like, missing her. And when she’s out in danger and I’m closed up, it just feels like it again.” Daisy shakes her head, and finally single tears escape, rolling down the bridge of her nose and falling to her sweater. “And it’s too much, so… a bit of a distraction.”

She quiets down, and for a moment everything is silent, only the soft crackling of the fluorescent lights above them preventing the room from feeling dead.

But then fingertips touch her shoulder gently, and Daisy looks up to Jon, who gives her maybe the softest look she ever received from the sharp-featured man. He’s turned to her, arms open wide and a hesitant half-smile on his face, and Daisy doesn’t need him to say anything to understand the offer. She scoots over until she can rest her head on his shoulder, and Jon’s arms wrap around her, giving her grounding safety.

They don’t hug a lot. Daisy isn’t used to touching when it’s not Basira’s kisses and cuddles, and Jon himself doesn’t seem like a man accustomed to people ever touching him much. But they have their own little routine - brushes of shoulders, fist bumps and high-fives when playing video games, smacking each other lightly when getting drunk. But hugs? Not so much.

 _Maybe we just need to get used to it, because it’s good,_ Daisy thinks to herself as she stares away, calming down beside Jon. Her friend is all bones, so much that she wonders how his body still functions, but his hug is surprisingly good, definitely not as sharp as she expected it to be. It’s good.

“Sorry,” Jon mutters beside Daisy’s head. She slowly gets herself out from the hug to look at him, her face a puzzled expression. “What for?”

Jon’s gaze drops away. “I didn’t mean to bring you back to it, I just… thought it’d be good to ask. But I ruined the distraction, I suppose.”

Daisy shoves his shoulder with her own, a small smiling rising on her face. “You’re an idiot, you know that?”

“What?”

“You listened, Jon.” She rests one hand on his shoulder, giving him a squeeze as a thank you. “You’re just fine.”

Jon’s head snaps back to look at her, his face lightening up. “Ah! Really? O-okay, then, then that’s good.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.” Daisy poses. “Anything you want to talk about?”

“I think you heard me whining enough.”

“I don’t mind more.”

Jon shakes his head. “No, it’s alright, I… I think I’ll reserve my own feelings for another day, if that’s alright with you.”

“Sure, if that’s what you want.” Daisy gives him an intense glare. She’s quite good with those, to be honest. “If you’re avoiding anything because you think I can’t stand it right now, I _will_ murder you.”

Jon laughs from deep in his chest, throwing his head back. “I thought we were past threats.” He looks back to her, his eyes steady in their stare. “Daisy, it’s fine, I - I’d really rather not delve into anything right now.”

“Okay, okay.” Daisy looks away, fixing her gaze at the bottle standing beside her on the floor. There’s still enough wine there to get them both properly drunk, but she doesn’t feel like passing cheap wine between the two of them would do any good. Daisy’s not a heavy drinker in her worst days, and she feels much better now, like the tight ties of the stone she carries against her heart loosened their knots, enough that it is no longer an unbearable weight. “You want to play something?”

“Ah, sure, yeah. Can we do something with no shooting, though? I’m tired of losing all the time.”

Daisy crinkles her nose. “But we don’t have anything else on the old console here, what do you want to do?”

“Ah… Don’t you have like, Minecraft or Sims on your computer, or something?”

“I guess. Fine.” Daisy slowly stands up, stabilizing herself with her arms spread to both sides, until she feels balanced in place. She then leans forward, offering Jon her hand, who takes it gratefully and uses the support to get on his feet, too.

Jon lets go and presses his fingertips against both his temples, making a few small circles. “God, we should drink some water, shouldn’t we?”

“A brilliant idea on your side.” Daisy slings her arm around his shoulders, turning them towards the door, and starts leading them out. A teasing smile plays on her lips as she adds: “Come on, grandpa.”

“I’m _thirty one!_ ”


	6. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: nightmares (recalling.)

Light slips in through a window with curtains half covered, the sun slowly rising over the Scottish hills that surround the little wooden cottage. The beams of warmth crawl into the bedroom, shining on the wall across the window, and wash over the two men tangled up in the bed surrounded by reddish-brown walls. The bonier of the two turns, eyelids fluttering for a few seconds, and then Jon wakes up.

Jon sighs and cuddles closer to Martin, who is still sleeping soundly, one hand draped around Jon’s waist in a protective hug. Jon himself is curled onto Martin, back to chest, as he took the role of the smaller spoon tonight. Jon likes it best when they sleep face-to-face, a mess of limbs and close hearts, but Martin likes the spooning, which gives them more contact. So they just do something different each time, which is quite fine with Jon.

To be honest, most things are fine with Jon, nowadays.

They’ve been in the safehouse for two weeks now, spending their days in sense-numbing domesticity. They spend so much time together, around the house, in the village down a few hills, walking through the forest nearby. Sometimes they speak for hours, sometimes they just curl up on the sofa and read each their own books in silence. The outside world is still dangerous, and they have so much they still carry with them, but…  _ I don’t remember when I was last this happy. _

Carefully, Jon slips out of Martin’s embrace, taking off the covers and getting out of bed. His bare feet meet the wooden floor, and he takes a moment to stand in place and take in the air of a new day, watching the sky outside being painted in the warm pinks and oranges of sunrise. Jon glances over to Martin, and a smile rises on his lips.  _ I woke up early enough, so I’ll make some breakfast in the meantime. _

When Martin wakes up half an hour later, he goes into the kitchen to find Jon with his back to him, stacking golden pancakes one on top of each other in two plates, like he has been doing for the past week, every single morning. Jon is not a great cook - he mostly buys pre-made mixes, things that can be heated over or put in a pan. But since he learned from Martin that pancakes are his favorite breakfast, he took on the task of making them until they’d both be sick of it. Jon bought at least ten mixes and all the toppings he could think of, and it seems to make Martin very happy, so Jon keeps on.

Jon turns around, plate in each hand, his face lightening up when he sees Martin. “Morning!”

“Morning,” Martin yawns, still rubbing his eyes, his glasses hanging on the collar of his shirt. “Pancakes?”

“Last I checked, they still were.”

Martin groans, but he’s hiding a smile. “You’re stupid.”

Jon chuckles. “Might be.” He goes over to the small oak table, placing the plates on top, and then turns back to Martin. “Anything you want with those?”

“Take your pick.” Martin restarts his walk towards the counter, rewarding Jon with a peck on the cheek on the way. “I’ll fix us some tea.”

Jon smiles to himself, a bit stupidly. In fairness, he’s been smiling stupidly plenty in the past two weeks.

They make their way around the kitchen in relative silence, brushing fingers and bumping shoulders as in their usual routine, one that feels so natural it’s hard to remember a time when they weren’t so comfortable together. Martin makes the tea and Jon chops up fruits, and a few minutes later they find themselves already having their breakfast.

It’s only when he sits properly in front of Martin that Jon spots something is wrong. Martin’s curls are usually messy after the night, but now they look absolutely disheveled. Jon can also tell that the circles around Martin’s eyes are more prominent, even behind glasses, and his face looks weary from lack of sleep. Martin hasn’t said anything to indicate he’s not fine, but Jon knows in his gut there’s something he’s missing.

Jon puts down his fork. “Martin?”

“Mhm?”

Jon hesitates, lingering on his breath, before deciding there’s no use in holding himself back.  _ Never is.  _ “How did you sleep last night?”

“Ah… fine. Why are you asking?” Martin doesn’t look up from his plate, paying much more attention to the task of fitting a strawberry and a pancake together on his fork.

Jon still hasn’t come back to eating yet, eyes fixed intently on Martin. “You’re sure?”

Martin still hasn’t looked up. “Jon…”

“Alright, alright. You don’t want to talk about it.” Jon drops his gaze away, heart sinking in his chest. He knows to respect Martin boundaries, and if he doesn’t want to tell Jon what’s going on, then that’s his choice. But it doesn’t mean Jon is worried, that he isn’t frustrated he can’t help.  _ What could bother Martin so much that he doesn’t want to talk about it? _

They’re quiet again, each busy with his own plate, deep in their own thoughts. Jon sneaks glances towards Martin, hoping that maybe he’d start another conversation, or better yet, tell him anything. But Martin just eats in silence, not looking up even once, as far as Jon can tell. And that bothers Jon even more.

The silence stretches unbearably, like a string pulled more and more on the verge of tearing, the weight on Jon’s shoulders dragging him down more and more each passing second.

“I had… I had a dream. Last night.”

Jon picks his gaze up as quick as he can, his hands freezing mid-air. Martin’s hands are curled around his mug of tea, still steaming, and his eyes finally meet Jon’s, waiting nervously to see if Jon is still willing to listen. Jon puts down the cutlery and leans back, nodding quietly.  _ I’m listening. _

Martin breathes in. “So, I had a dream. I’d call it a nightmare, but… I don’t know. It didn’t feel like it? It wasn’t exactly  _ scary, _ per say, but... it was bad. I was on the beach near where I grew up, or at least, it seemed so. But no one was there. Well, at least… at least until I heard Tim.” Martin takes in another breath, and Jon’s own shoulders drop, the weariness hiding in his still young bones suddenly feeling much more apparent than usual.

“The way he spoke… he was so angry, Jon. He blamed me for everything, how I survived and he didn’t, how Sasha didn’t, how my mum is also gone because of me…,” he sniffs. “And I couldn’t run away, or say anything, or wake up. I just stood there, and I…,” Martin’s voice breaks, and he drops his eyes away from Jon, and it stings to see him so deeply affected by his mind’s own creation. “Sorry. I can’t say more than that.”

“Martin, that’s… that’s alright.” Jon reaches out his hand across the table, crossing the imaginary line in the middle of it that separates them, and offers it open for Martin to take or decline.

Martin slips his hand in, and the tension is broken: fingers intertwine, nerves pressing muscles pressing skin tight in reassurance _ , _ and both of them let out air they didn’t know they were holding. “Thanks.”

“Of course.” Jon doesn’t let go. “Martin - you know that’s not true, right? It isn’t your fault, never was. You’re not responsible for any of this.”  _ I am, partially, but… I’m not going to bring that up now. _

Martin sighs. “I know, I know. It’s just hard to believe that sometimes, especially when it’s a dream. There’s nothing logical about it, exactly.”

“I suppose so, yes.”

“Hmm.” Slowly, Martin parts their hands, but not in an avoiding way; he genuinely looks like he’s feeling better, even by a little, his shoulders loose and face calmer. “Well, thank you. It’s easier to deal with this when you’re here.” He gives Jon a small grin. “Do we have any maple syrup left?”

Jon smiles back. “Let me check.”

___________

“Martin?”

Martin picks his head up from his notebook, pen stopping in the middle of a word. “Yeah?”

Jon puts down the book he was attempting to read with little success, straightening his glasses. “I - ah, well, I thought we could, maybe, go somewhere soon? Take a little trip.”

“Anything different about it from the one we take every evening?”

“Ah, yes, actually. It’s - there’s somewhere I want to show you, if it’s alright with you?”

“Sure, yeah.” He furrows. “Everything alright? You… seem pretty nervous.”

Jon shakes his head. “It’s alright. Just something I wanted to show you, that’s all.”

“Okay.” Martin gives him a small smile, and then his head falls back down, the pen resuming its movement of writing and scratching against the paper.

Picking the book back up, Jon does his best to focus on the arranged lines, but his heart is fluttering in his chest with nervousness and excitement. He couldn’t stop thinking about Martin’s dream all day, his mind prodding him, insisting he should do something about it. That’s how this trail of thoughts started, at least. Now the idea that he has feels a bit unrelated, but it’s still something Jon wants to do.

How it essentially went was,  _ Martin’s deep in the past, and so am I. We can’t ignore it, but we have to keep going. And for that you need a future. _

Jon’s not good with words, not when it comes to expressing his feelings. It takes him time to come out of his shell, time to make his way through the walls he built around his soul for so many years and present his heart out in the open. But he wants to do it, wants to show Martin all that lies ahead.

Also, he’s got a plan, and that gives him some confidence, at least.

The next hour passes hazily for Jon, their afternoon of relaxation feeling more like time he has to wait through before their walk. Around half past five he can’t really hold himself back anymore, and closes his book with a decisive thumping sound. Martin jerks up, curious eyes meeting Jon’s look. “You want to go?”

Jon rubs the nape of his neck awkwardly, feeling a bit embarrassed that his impatience is obvious. “That obvious?”

“Yeah, but it’s cute,” Martin beams, and it doesn’t do much in the way of calming the butterflies Jon feels dancing inside his ribcage. “I figured something’s going on, so… lead the way?”

“Oh, yeah. We should probably get our coats, though, it’s getting cold outside.”

“Good idea.”

They both get to the corridor and pick up their coats from the hangers, Jon picking up an umbrella in addition. It hasn't rained much since they arrived here, especially in these hours (it mostly rains at night), but they already found themselves once caught up in the rain on the way home from buying groceries, running all the way back with their coats held close to their chests and wrapped tightly around the bags. It was only a few minutes’ trip, but they were soaked up by the time they got to the cottage, their purchases remaining mostly dry by some miracle. Jon and Martin had curled up in front of the fire that same night, trying their best to keep themselves warm and fight away the cold.

Jon doesn’t want to repeat the experience again, except for the last part, at least. (Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he also wonders since when he started calling the place home, how easily he found it to refer to the safehouse as the center of his life. But he’d think about it more intently some other day.)

Martin opens the door, holding it open for Jon, a twinkling in his eyes that makes Jon wonder if he’d ever get used to being so madly in love. “After you.”

Jon’s sure he’s blushing. “Thanks.”

They go out and lock the door behind them, going down the small slate road and through the metal gate, the fields and hills around them welcoming as always. Martin takes his hand, and Jon looks down to him, smiling as their fingers intertwine. It feels natural, by now. 

Most of their walk is a calming silence broken by short conversations - Martin picks up a few acorns and rocks on the way, commenting on how each one looks, and Jon points out the various flowers they encounter on the way to Martin, who in turn smiles wide and tells Jon about all the different meanings they have (Jon never thought that flower meanings could be so interesting, and yet, well… in fairness, anything that Martin is passionate about can be nothing but fascinating.) Still, they have long moments of quiet in between, and this is fine just the same. Lately, Jon found it can be just as amazing, if you have the right person by your side.

It takes about ten minutes to get where Jon wanted, and when they arrive he stops in place, tugging Martin’s hand gently to signal him they’ve reached their destination. They’re on the top of the highest hill in their area, and they can see fields and small houses stretching out for kilometers ahead. Looking south, there’s a forest - rows and rows of old pines, with hidden routes and nooks and crooks, disappearing over the horizon. The village is on the opposite end, just barely visible between the hills that surround it. And there, on the east, they can watch over to the seashore, which they haven’t had the chance to visit yet. The sun is not setting yet, but it’s close; a few rays hit the water and break into golden slivers, flickering on the quiet waves.

Jon tears his gaze away from the sea and back to Martin. “What do you think?”

“I… it’s an amazing spot, Jon. How did you find it?” He turns his look back to Jon and cocks his head to the side, raising an eyebrow. “The Eye decided to be nice for once?”

Jon snorts. “I don’t think it’s really capable of that… No, remember how I couldn’t sleep a few days ago?”

“Ah, yeah. You said you needed some fresh air, and then I kind of fell back to sleep. Sorry about that.”

Jon drops the umbrella without notice as he waves his hand dismissively, and looks back to where they came from, spotting the cottage as a small reddish tile in a sea of green. “It’s fine, I was gone for some time, it’s good that you slept. But anyways, I - I did some wandering, you could say, and I got here at sunrise. I sat here for about half an hour, I think. So… I thought it’d be even better at sunset.” He feels nervous when he looks back to Martin, expectant green eyes meeting blue more beautiful than the sky above or the sea ashore. “What do you think?”

Martin chuckles, ducking his head as the blush rises in his cheeks. “I think it’s pretty romantic, Jon.”

“Oh.” Somewhere in his stomach, the butterflies do a small happy dance. “Is that okay?”

“Jon… it’s great.”

“Oh! Oh, okay. Good, then. That’s good.”  _ Keep talking, or else you won’t get it out at all. _ “Um. So. I did some thinking, today, ah, actually. And I thought that… You know, we talk about the past a lot. And that’s good! I like it when we get to know each other. and we should also deal with.. stuff.” He pauses. “But… I thought maybe we can also try to think about what we can do next.”

“Well… what do you mean?”

“I mean that… We hadn’t really had the chance to dream about our future? Since everything has begun… I know that I at least was more focused on the here and now. And I never got to dream, or hear what you want to do. And maybe when things calm down a little, we can find a way to live those lives? Something to look forward to, I guess.” He gives a small, hesitant half smile. “And… I’d also just really like to hear your dream. If it’s alright with you.”

“Oh. Alright.” Martin distangels their fingers - which have been intertwined since the moment they left the house - and motions to the grass. “Though we should probably sit, I think? I mean, if we’re, um, staying here for a while.”

“Ah, yes, of course, that’s - that’s probably a good idea.” Jon falls more or less gracefully to the ground, crossing his legs, while Martin spreads his legs in front of him and leans back on his hands. He looks up to the sky, his eyebrows slightly farrowed, and Jon knows Martin is pondering the question.

Martin looks back at Jon after a few thoughts. “I.... guess I always thought going a bit more into poetry would be nice? Like, taking classes in creative writing, study poetry analysis and all that. Maybe go with the knowledge to teach or write, I don’t know. I haven’t given it much thought, because of mum, and then the institute… but maybe when everything blows over I can try to get into a course, if I find one.” When he started, his voice was hesitant, but as he speaks, his speech becomes faster, more excited. “I mean, why not? I could, even if we still don’t solve everything... there’s afternoon classes and evening classes and everything. I… I think it’s something I’d like to do.” Martin stops leaning back and comes closer to Jon, taking his hand back again. “What about you?”

“Me?” Jon pauses and looks down at their tangled fingers, turning the question over in his mind. “I… actually haven’t thought of that. Get into researching something a bit more normal, maybe? I - I always liked the academic side of things, if you know what I mean, so that might be nice.”

“So it’s a deal, then?”

“A deal, what?”

“You go and get some academic degree, and I write proper poetry.”

“Your poetry is proper, Martin.”

“What do you know?”

Jon pushes his glasses up with definity. “I know enough.”

“ _ Sure. _ ” Martin nods, absolutely unconvinced. “Anyways… thanks for this. I usually don’t think about the future like that, so… it’s a good idea. To think about the good stuff that can happen.”

“Of course, Martin,” Jon says softly, and he can swear Martin blushes again. “Actually, I have another thing I wanted to say. If - if that’s alright.”

“Go ahead?”

“Um… so. About that. I know we kind of slipped into that…,” he raises their intertwined hands up, before letting them fall back down to his hip awkwardly. “But, ah... I wanted to know if it’s alright to call you my boyfriend?” Jon’s voice is on edge, his breath stopping.  _ You can’t actually misinterpret all of this, but still... _

Martin is definitely blushing now. “And Melanie said you couldn’t be a romantican,” he mumbles, and then he gives Jon the most beautiful smile the man has seen in his entire life, the setting sun painting his curls divine gold. “Yes, Jon, of course. As long as I can call you mine.”

“What do you mean, of course, why wouldn’t I- “

But he never gets to finish the sentence, because Martin lets go of his hand and pulls Jon’s head down, kissing him hesitantly. Jon closes his eyes and kisses Martin, hands in his curls, heart beating fast, and he’s the happiest a man could ever be. They’re a jumble of coats and hands on the hill, holding each other, their words and touch a promise to be there together for a better future than this.

They kiss for a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> Massive thanks again to my artist and beta readers! Reminding ya’ll to check out [hila’s personal blog (hilahorizon)](https://hilahorizon.tumblr.com/), and the art blogs of both [miska pestek (miskapestek)](https://miskapestek.tumblr.com/) and [maya (mayulart)](https://mayulart.tumblr.com/). Go and show them some love, they deserve it.
> 
> You can also find me at [my tumblr (jonmartin-trash)](https://jonmartin-trash.tumblr.com/), where you can find my occasional posts and ask me stuff, if you want to! And if you left a kudos or commented, thank you in advance - I appreciate it more than I can describe.


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